


Some Things Just Aren't Meant to Be

by HappyCamper27



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Alter Egos, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Dark, F/F, F/M, Insane Harry Potter, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, There's not always a happy ending, author-has-no-idea-how-to-use-tags, sort-of-Dissociative-Identity-Disorder-sort-of-not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 10:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4956265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyCamper27/pseuds/HappyCamper27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And some things are. And sometimes, sanity isn't really necessary for a happy life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pre-First Year

Harry takes shallow breaths in his little cupboard, trying hard to be small and quiet as his Uncle stomps past in the hall, his steps unsteady and raging, and Harry just knows that his breath is stinking of spirits, hot and rank. His Uncle, he knows, was an angry drunk, throwing things and yelling, and Aunt Petunia is doubtlessly cowering in their room, just as he cowers in his cupboard.

No one is safe from his Uncle’s drunken fury.

Finally, his Uncle stomps upstairs, and Harry lets out a tiny sigh of relief. Once his Uncle retreats upstairs he is out of the danger zone; oh, it isn’t over, not by a long shot—but at least Harry himself isn’t in danger of a horrid beating, with his Uncle breathing in his face with his horrible, reeking breath and yelling abuse in his face.

He listens, waiting for the cries that would signal that his Uncle, rare though it is, has turned his fury on his Aunt instead of him.

They don’t come, not that night.

///

Dudley is spoilt and loud, Harry thinks. He is demanding, and _oblivious_ and he sleeps like a log; no matter what, even if his own mother is being attacked brutally in the next room, he sleeps through it.

Not only that, but he looks at the abuser, the attacker, with excited, happy eyes, awaiting praise.

Harry watches his Aunt run her fingers gently along her forearm, where he knows her Mark rests, written in a sloppy hand.

_Another pint, girl_ , it reads, and Harry wonders how his Uncle had said it. Had he been so very angry and violent back then, snarling the words as he drank himself into a drunken stupor?

Of course, he knows his Uncle’s words as well, written in Aunt Petunia’s graceful cursive along his Uncle’s meaty wrist and the back of his palm. _Get it yourself!_

He wonders whether those words, his Aunt’s first words to his Uncle, had been fierce and fiery, sharp and strong. They look it, written as though the writer had been furious and digging the pen into his Uncle’s skin with every stroke.

If they had been, he thinks, he sees none of that fire in his Aunt now. She is quiet, and plays the doting mother to his cousin, but her eyes are sharp with carefully hidden fear, and she steps lightly around his Uncle.

She never steps in when his Uncle makes a decision; no matter how sour she is, she doesn’t step in, doesn’t argue, because arguing means _pain_ , no matter how long it takes for that pain to reach them.

He can’t blame her for not stepping in, not really. It’s every person for themselves in the Dursley household, no matter how Dudley is oblivious to it and so _stupid_ that he can’t see the pain in his own mother and the terror that flashes in her eyes every time his father lifts his meaty fists.

It’s every person for themself; that is what he knows.

That is what he knows of a family.

///

Sometimes he thinks to himself that _his_ Mark is the prettiest he sees. He has seen his Aunt’s, and his Uncle’s, and some of the Marks of others at school, but to him, the smooth dips and curves of his Mark resonate with him and he always thinks to himself _pretty_ whenever he traces the lines.

But he’s a boy, and boys don’t have _pretty_ things, they have _cool_ things, and so he stays quiet, never speaking of his Mark even when others ask.

He avoids showing it to his Aunt and Uncle, because he knows that it would only make them mad. His Uncle would drink, and would attack in a furious rage, and his Aunt would lash out with sour and bitter words, harsh in their age-old hurt.

His Mark rests delicately on his chest, and always hums with a low _warmth_ that makes him shiver. Sometimes he wonders about the words, though. They are _strange_ words, odd and different, and he thinks that is why his Aunt and Uncle hate them so much, because they are _strange_ and not the very thing they so chase and seek— _normal_.

He runs his finger lightly over the elegant curves of the letters, whispering the words to himself.

_Avada Kedavra._

///

When the letters start coming, his Uncle is so very _angry,_ and his Aunt is cold, her lips pinching and her eyes burning. He thinks that she is hurting, and wants to reach out and _touch her_ , because her hurt _hurts_ him, nagging at his head. But the hurt is soon swallowed by a fury so old that he wonders if she even realizes that she’s forgotten her true reason for feeling it, and she stands aside as his Uncle’s fists fly, a glass of scotch sitting innocently on the table.

_Freak_ , his Uncle snarls. _Abomination!_ He howls as his fists impact with Harry’s already-bruised flesh, and Harry bites back his cries and whimpers, knowing that no good would come of crying out. Any attempt to cry wolf, to show what his Uncle did, is shushed away, and no one even whispers of the Potter-boy, tiny and skinny, and the Dursley-wife, pinched and scared.

But this pain, it is something Harry has always known, even if he has learned not to cry out, to not cry wolf. After all, the boy who cried wolf was eaten in the end, and what could he change?

It is all he has ever known, and he thinks that the world is truly a cruel place to be, if all his schoolmates secretly curl over their bruises and broken bones, shuttering away pain into sharp breaths and tense muscles.

When they leave Privet Drive, his breath catches in his chest, and fear pounds in his ears. They go through forests and over bridges, and they even stay in a hotel once.

But the letters keep following, and Harry fears the head that his Uncle’s fury is reaching, the puce that his face turns with every new letter.

Silently, he prays to the letter-sender. _Please stop._

The letters don’t stop.

And later, he thanks whatever deity watches over him that they didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story began as a foray into the Soulmate AU and poking around into what it could be and what the consequences could be if Harry and Voldemort were soulmates but ended up killing each other. It was only supposed to be at most around ten chapters. And then it decided it wanted to be more.  
> ...I hope you all enjoy this fic as it goes.  
> This is also my first work here on AO3, so I hope everything goes well.  
> Stay awesome, y'all.


	2. First Year

Hagrid is huge and bulky, and Harry shies away from touching him at first. Despite the obvious differences, he looks so similar to his Uncle that he can’t help himself.

And then those words fall from Hagrid’s lips, rough with the giant’s accent.

“Yer a wizard, ‘Arry.”

And everything changes.

///

Diagon Alley is _busy_. There are so many people, and Harry had thought that the people in the Leaky Cauldron were pushy and forward, constantly moving into what little personal space he could muster, but these people are so much more so; they push and laugh and grin, but they shove and hit, and Harry knows he is shying away but he can’t help himself.

He shudders at the thought of his Uncle finding out that Harry, however unintentionally, has cried wolf. The pain would be unbearable, he just knows.

But they are pushing and harsh and they _nag_ at his head, and he bites his lip. He doesn’t want them to hurt— _hurt_ is _bad_ , and he can make _his_ pain vanish, why can’t he make theirs vanish?—but he doesn’t want to reach out, to pull the pain because the pain will _hurt_ and it will only make _Harry_ hurt instead. And he knows that in the end, _Harry_ was Harry’s first priority, and the rest of the world second.

And when Hagrid asks if Harry is _happy_ , Harry aims a ( _fake_ ) smile up to the giant and says, brightly, “Why wouldn’t I be? This is amazing!”

It satisfies the man, and his bright beetle eyes shine as he shows Harry around Diagon Alley. Harry is content to follow Hagrid around, letting himself be led like his cousin has been so many times before.

Ollivanders, Harry thinks, is far too creepy and far too knowing. Every time the old man had reached forward and Harry had flinched away from contact, Ollivander had looked at him so pityingly, and his silver eyes had been sad.

It makes no sense, and as Hagrid returns Harry to Privet Drive, Harry puts it out of his mind, preparing to handle the pain he knows will be forthcoming.

He isn’t wrong; the moment Hagrid turns his back, his Uncle is on him, breath hot and rank, and Harry bites his lip, refusing to cry wolf.

He’s not like his Aunt Petunia once was, or might have been. He doesn’t have fire, or if he did it’s long since been snuffed out by his Uncle’s fists and rage.

His Mark flares hotly that night, and he shudders in his little cupboard. Dudley’s other room still has all of Harry’s things, but his Uncle has forgotten or is just so furious that he couldn’t stand it, and Harry had been shoved into the only safety he has known for eleven years.

It isn’t so bad, but Harry brings up a hand to clutch at his shirt where his Mark is burning so hotly.

The cries _do_ come, that night.

///

The Hogwarts Express is, Harry thinks, very bright. It suits this new world, this place of wonder, to have something so brilliant and shining to introduce new students, but he is hesitant to board.

In the end, it is the threat of what is waiting for him if he turns back that pushes him aboard.

This new world has to be better, has to be safer.

Ronald Weasley is odd, and as Harry shows the red-head his scar, the scar that his Uncle had hurt him over so many times in the past, the scar that his Aunt hates and verbally attacks him for having, he can’t help but be stunned by the awe that shines in Ron’s eyes. There is something else, something quiet and dark behind the awe, but Harry ignores it because maybe, just _maybe_ , he’s found somewhere where he won’t _hurt_.

///

When the Sorting Hat murmurs _you could be great, you know; Slytherin will help you there,_ Harry freezes. He may not have grown up here, in this nonsensical world, but he knows that there is a bias, a horrible bias against these Slytherins, and he can tell what will happen if he lands in the green-and-silver house.

He has to play the games of these people, just like he plays his Uncle’s game and doesn’t cry wolf. He’ll be the Alice to the Wizarding World’s Wonderland, but _better_ , because he’ll play along and play their game by _their_ rules because Harry doesn’t know any.

The Hat sighs in his ears, and Harry can tell it knows just what he is thinking. _Not everyone is like that, child,_ it whispers, but Harry has no chance to reply, as the next moment the Hat is crying out to the Hall.

“Gryffindor!”

The red-and-gold house claps, and Harry joins them, letting what little he knows of laughter flood to his face.

He’ll play their game; he’ll be Alice here, just like he tries not to be the boy-who-cried-wolf at the Dursleys.

///

Ron is tactless. He speaks without thinking, saying things that Harry mouths alongside him, watching with hidden care. His words are hurtful and painful, and Harry can do nothing against them, because the pain they cause isn’t _his_ and the thought of touching someone else makes him both shudder and crave the contact.

Their professors are, by turns, sharp, stern, cheerful, fearful, and so very horribly _bitter_. The bitter-Professor snaps his words at Harry, and the bile Harry can almost taste in them makes him suppress a horrifying ripple of disgust.

Ron hisses under his breath about unfairness, and the bitter-Professor snarls about him being so very arrogant, and Harry knows that he really hasn’t found a place for him.

They are different from the Dursleys, but they are very much the same too.

But a game is a game, and he plays along, letting them lead him by the nose. When Halloween rolls around, and Ron’s tactlessness sends a girl crying, Harry feels a wave of disgust, but he doesn’t say a word. Attracting attention to himself instead of letting the red-head send his poison out to the rest of the world would only bring pain, and Harry doesn’t want _pain_.

Then the scared-Professor dashes in during a feast—a feast, celebrating on a day that Harry had an entire prospective future ripped away from him—screaming about a troll, troll in the dungeons.

And Harry knows that he has to play along, that if he leaves the crying-girl, some of the rose-tint will fall away from the others eyes, because he wouldn’t be playing brave-Alice, but scared-Harry. And he has to be brave-Alice here, so he goes looking for the crying-girl and finds her, and the troll.

It is very scary, and Harry wants nothing more than the comforting darkness of his cupboard and the knowledge that if he just breaths quietly and holds so very still, he might escape pain. But that is scared-Harry, so he forces himself to keep playing the role of brave-Alice, and fights the troll and saves the crying-girl.

The Professors are angry and scared by turns, but no one lashes out at Harry, so Harry knows he’s played his part well, that no one saw the scared-Harry beneath the brave-Alice.

///

He plays along all year, letting his two ‘friends’ drag him alongside them into all sorts of trouble, and playing the part of brave-Alice. There is a three-headed dog, and a flying lesson that leaves Harry breathless and both terrified and in awe. He loves the feeling of wind through his hair, but the openness makes him feel so _exposed._

Then comes the enforced search for Nicholas Flamel, leading them to the Philosopher’s Stone, and Harry wants to shake and curl up under a table. But he continues, and the role of brave-Alice seems nearly second nature by now.

The Quidditch match that nearly kills him almost makes him say _no more, I can’t be Alice!_ But he doesn’t let  himself say that. Because saying that would be _bad_ , and Harry knows all to well what happens to bad people.

He hasn’t seen any bruises on Ron or Hermione or Seamus or Dean or Neville, but he thinks it’s only a matter of time. After all, this world is so very cruel, and Harry surely can’t be the _only bad one_ , right? But after a while, he starts to wonder if he really is the _only bad one_ , because even as the bruises fade he can feel the pressure and pain of playing brave-Alice pressing in on him, crushing scared-Harry away into a little corner as brave-Alice chases after Quirrell, facing death in the face and ignoring the hot flare of the Mark across their chest, spitting in Voldemort’s face.

When Harry wakes up, though, brave-Alice is hovering just below the surface, and the role speaks up to Dumbledore, and the twinkling Headmaster explains all that had happened. But when the old man is gone, and Madame Pomfrey is satisfied, scared-Harry pulls forward, and brave-Alice retreats, the mask being placed on its shelf for a moment.

_Avada Kedavra._

Those words, the words he had known as long as he had been able to read, had _killed his parents._ They had very nearly _killed him_. And he knows, just knows, that he is like his Aunt and Uncle. He won’t ever have the happily-ever-after the girls are always whispering about, that Ron has been promised with his Mark-match, a brunette called Lavender.

Some Mark-matches aren’t meant to be.

Scared-Harry and mad-Voldemort is one of those.

The tears, Harry discovers, are hot and painful, and when the brave-Alice mask slips back into place, the tears are still falling down scared-Harry’s face.

It really did _hurt_.


	3. Summer after First Year

Harry sighs. This summer has been one of the worst. Upon arriving back in London, his Uncle had only just managed to wait until they had returned to Number 4, Privet Drive, to begin his raging.

“Freaks!” he had snarled, face turning an odd shade of red. “Bringing their freakishness and danger to my family!”

The brave-Alice mask bristles with indignation, but boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf steps forward, pushing scared-Harry to the back. Brave-Alice glowers from his shelf, and scared-Harry watches the glowering mask quietly.

_Why don’t you protect yourself?_ The mask demands, because that is the personality of brave-Alice.

_I do,_ scared-Harry responds. _I have you, and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf_.

_That’s not enough,_ the mask, the persona, snarls.

_Isn’t it?_ Scared-Harry asks, and curls back in on himself as the reverberations of the pain his-their Uncle is inflicting upon him-them reach him. Brave-Alice growls, but backs down, and soon boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf is back, and pushing scared-Harry to the forefront.

The pain is shaking and horrible, but Harry bites his lip, drawing the metallic flavor of blood into his mouth. Boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf shakes in the back of his head, cold and stoic and his mouth sewn shut, _pulling_ at the pain.

There’s not a lot they can do about _anything_ , really.

///

Dudley laughs horribly, placing his cards down. His friend, Piers, groans.

“You’re too good at this,” he grumbles, putting away his own cards. It is a game that Dudley started playing while Harry was at Hogwarts—Duel Monsters, Harry thinks it’s called. But Dudley isn’t very good at it, Harry thinks. He only takes monsters that are strong and high-level, and casts away the traps and magic cards and lower-level monsters like so much trash.

One night, Harry sneaks some of the cards that Dudley has thrown away into his oversized shirt, hiding them so that his Uncle doesn’t see.

Later, Harry pulls out the cards, and thinks that maybe there’s a pull there, like boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf pulls at scared-Harry’s pain. Some feel warmer to Harry, like when the Mark flares warmly, and others are icy-cold. He finds one, pulling more strongly at him, and he wonders why his cousin tossed this one away—despite his cousin’s taste for attack over defense, he would likely keep this one, right? It _did_ have fifteen-hundred defense points. Then he reads the name.

_Dharc the Dark Charmer_.

And then it makes sense.

Magic. Dudley, raised by his parents to be nearly magic-phobic, would naturally toss away any and all spellcaster cards, urged on by his parents and their sour, bitter fury and jealousy. He stares at the picture a moment, wondering at it. It is filled with magic and darkness, and brave-Alice hisses from the back, muttering about _Dark Arts_ and _evil_ , but that is brave-Alice, not scared-Harry.

He hides the cards under his creaky and rickety bed, and holds his breath as his Uncle comes lumbering past his door, steps heavy. He breaths a sigh of relief as there is no pounding at the door, and his Uncle passes by, leaving Harry alone.

Hedwig stares at him, amber eyes sharp and clear, and she hoots softly, nipping gently at the bars of her cage. Harry looks at her quietly, and he thinks that maybe brave-Alice and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf are looking through his eyes too, because Hedwig seems to almost sigh, and brave-Alice nearly preens about how smart their owl is.

Harry tucks himself under his covers, and tries not to think about the coming days.

The summer, he thinks, will take a long time.

///

He listens in surreptitiously when Dudley is playing his games with friends, and wonders if Dudley realizes that the cards—while most certainly not truly alive in a traditional sense—have a _pull_ to them, a sort of _aliveness_ that Harry is hard pressed to explain.

His Mark flares hotly on his chest, and Harry winces. There is a big dinner party tonight, and he has to be in his room, with nothing but a few pieces of bread and Hedwig for company, until tomorrow, without a sound.

He sneaks more of the cards from Dudley’s latest booster pack, and resolves to look at them later.

Unfortunately, there isn’t a later, as when he is just getting ready to pull out the cards, there is a _crack_ , and a strange creature is sitting on his bed with luminous green eyes.

“Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts!” it cries, and scared-Harry lets brave-Alice slip forward, the mask sliding on like second nature. Brave-Alice reacts, and soon the House Elf is gone, and scared-Harry is being pushed forward, and then abruptly yanked back as his Uncle slams his way into the room.

 He spares a thought to thank any deity out there that he has already hidden the cards as boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf curls up and waits, letting their Uncle take out his fury. Hedwig shifts, but stays quiet, and scared-Harry feels a sense of relief. Brave-Alice would be mad if Hedwig were hurt, and he doesn’t think he can keep the persona back if brave-Alice really does get mad.

His-their uncle leaves him-them broken and bruised on their floor, uncaring if Dudley were to walk by and see them. Scared-Harry thinks, rather morbidly, that if he did, he would get a few kicks in at his-their expense.

But boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf is _pulling_ , and scared-Harry lets the ever-silent persona push him into oblivion.

It is quiet, at least.

///

The bars, Harry thinks, are a bit much. They are bright and red and fit in with the tall-tales his relatives have told about him being a delinquent. After all, if he’s a troublemaker, why not keep him from sneaking out the window? It makes sense, doesn’t it?

But Harry is skinny and tired and fragile, and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf and brave-Alice don’t know how to cope. He wants to go to Diagon Alley, to escape into the nonsensical world of magic, if only for a little bit, but they can’t. But showing pain, showing misery, will only make his-their Uncle happy, and brave-Alice refuses to let the one he sees as an enemy win in such a way.

So scared-Harry crafts another mask, different from brave-Alice and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf. This one is hopeful and cheerful, never letting anything get him down, so very unlike scared-Harry.

He slips into the new mask, and wonders if his Uncle will be able to tell the difference between scared-Harry and this new mask, this cheerful adventurous one. Brave-Alice mutters, and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf stares as bright-Aladdin shows up, his smile bright and strong in scared-Harry’s mind.

And then the bars are gone and there is a flying car and there are Weasley’s outside his window, and brave-Alice steps forward, getting their trunk and Hedwig, and stuffing the cards into their trousers.

And soon, they are soaring away, and bright-Aladdin is laughing while scared-Harry and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf watch on with silent eyes.


	4. Second Year

It is only the night before they leave for Hogwarts that Harry—scared-Harry, not bright-Aladdin or brave-Alice—has the chance to breathe, and look over the cards once again. Dharc is still there, and the sort-of-pull makes Harry shiver. There are so many magic cards and traps mixed in, that Harry only really comes across three other monsters.

_Lyna the Light Charmer_ has a similar sort-of-pull that Dharc does, and brave-Alice mutters lowly and tries to push forward, but scared-Harry holds firm. He will be out for this little while, and it is a welcome breath of fresh air for him. Brave-Alice pulls away, and scared-Harry thinks that the persona is maybe-sulking. It’s sometimes hard to tell, with brave-Alice.

_A Cat of Ill Omen_ and _An Owl of Luck_ make him laugh, and Hedwig hoots lowly from where she is perched, and Harry flips the card around and shows it to her. He hopes she finds the humor in it, and she churrs lowly, and Harry smiles.

“I thought you might find it funny,” he muses, and he stores the cards carefully in his trunk. He may not be playing the game, even if merely for the lack of a proper deck and no understanding of the rules, but the cards pull at him, and he can’t bring himself to let go of the maybe-sentient cards.

It really is all very strange.

///

Harry had hoped that he could simply board the Hogwarts Express and enjoy the ride, letting Hermione and Ron talk themselves into oblivion. But the barrier is closed, and he and Ron are trapped in Muggle London, and Ron has the bright idea of taking the flying car to Hogwarts. Brave-Alice pushes forward, and agrees, and scared-Harry and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf both shiver as they soar high in the sky.

It is a _bad idea_ , and scared-Harry is tempted to shove brave-Alice away, taking off the mask, but that also smacks of _bad idea,_ and they’re already committed. When they finally arrive at the school, it is disastrous, and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf _pulls_ the pain away, the souvenirs of their crash with the so-called Whomping Willow.

They are almost expelled, but bright-Aladdin slips on, and scared-Harry stays in his little corner. The ever-cheerful persona keeps everyone relatively calm, and soon their eyes are sliding shut, even as brave-Alice hisses about _fools_ and _bastards_. Brave-Alice isn’t very nice sometimes, Harry knows, but the mask’s emotions towards the Potions Master are potent and vicious.

///

Lockhart, Harry decides, is an utter fool. A fop, and annoying while being so very foppish and vain, out of all of them, bright-Aladdin and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf are the only ones who can stand him for any length of time, and scared-Harry isn’t really sure if boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf can really stand _anybody_ , but then again, boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf’s mouth is sewn shut, and sometimes he forcefully blinds and deafens himself, because sometimes the pain is all boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf can handle.

The incident with the Dueling Club merely reinforces this impression, and when Malfoy sends forth his snake, Harry can hear it hissing in such irritation and it nags at him, pulling at his head.

He steps forward, and reaches forward, and it isn’t brave-Alice or bright-Aladdin who speaks, but little scared-Harry. It makes him nervous, but he is better with animals than people, and he _speaks_ to the snake, whispering gentle words even as boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf peers forward, ready to _pull_ away any pain.

The whispers that follow him afterwards are nasty and malicious, and brave-Alice mutters mutinously from its shelf, and bright-Aladdin finds him-itself worn so much more as the days grow colder and the storms close in.

After the incident on Halloween, once again, with Harry finding the caretaker’s cat petrified, everyone has been scared, but now they have someone to focus on, to take their fury out on. Boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf finds himself _pulling_ so much those months, and Harry can’t help but hide behind his curtains at night, ignoring the icy-cold pulses from his Mark and looking at the cards.

Sometimes, he thinks, the cards _pulse_ with warmth, and sometimes he thinks he can see flickers of darkness at the edge of his vision. It scares him, a bit, and brave-Alice pushes him to put the cards away when this happens.

But, nevertheless, Harry keeps them with him. They are warm and _pulling_ , and sometimes his not-all-there mind is pulled back to them when he’s wandering off form his corner, leaving brave-Alice and bright-Aladdin to manage the outside world.

Sometimes he thinks about just wandering off and never coming back, losing himself in the dark recesses within his mind.

Sometimes it is so very tempting that it is only the masks, tugging at him, and Hedwig and the cards that pull him away.

///

It _hurts_ , Harry registers blankly. His Mark is burning with icy-cold, and the form of a sixteen year-old Lord Voldemort-slash-Tom Riddle stares at him with chill eyes.

“ _Speak to me, greatest of the Hogwarts Four_ ,” the shade _speaks_ , and scared-Harry feels a thrill of terror flicker through him, and brave-Alice pushes forward.

The Basilisk is terrifying, and not even Fawkes’ warm song stops the chills running down Harry’s spine. But Ginny is so _still_ and so _cold_ , lying there on the stone floor and in the stinking water and slime, and brave-Alice shoves scared-Harry into his corner, and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf _pulls_ their pain away.

In retrospect, he really should have figured out that something big would be happening; so many petrifications, so much pain, and Harry was still so blind that it was only Hermione’s bright-brilliance that solved the puzzle.

And then the Basilisk is dead, and the venom is burning in his veins, and the younger version of his maybe-Mark-match is gloating coldly, eyes madmad _mad_.

He takes the fang, pulls it loose from his own arm, and stabs it into the diary that had pulled Ginny into this dark and dank place that stinks of decay and stagnation. The stench is awful, and the shade _screams_ and fades away in bursts of painful light.

Brave-Alice hisses in victory, and bright-Aladdin pushes his way forward as Ginny wakes up. The venom is painpain _pain_ , like fire and ice all at the same time, and then Fawkes is there, all sadness and worry and tears, and the fire and ice are chased around, and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf shrieks inside as the venom is neutralized so very _painfully_. Boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf blinds himself and deafens himself, rocking on the floor of their little space, and brave-Alice sighs and pushes forward, bright-Aladdin not far behind.

His-their Mark _burns_ , and scared-Harry looks off into the darkness of his-their mind. It’s not too clear anymore which it is, though. His, theirs—did it even matter?

He is so very tempted to wander off, to lose himself, but boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf is thrashing, and they are flying, Fawkes carrying them all so elegantly.

///

He really doesn’t like Lucius Malfoy, Harry decides. The man is pompous and hateful and bigoted, and reminds him horribly of his puffed-up brat of a son, Draco. Or maybe it’s the other way round, with Draco reminding Harry of Lucius. It doesn’t really matter, though, because they’re both hateful and mean, just another reason why this nonsensical world really isn’t too much better than the Dursleys. But it’s better, and he’ll take what he can get.

But the arrogant, furious man attacks Harry, and the _words_ that nearly come out of the man’s mouth make Harry’s chest ache and his Mark flare hotly.

_Avada Kedavra_.

The Killing Curse.

Even now, the thought that he is tied with the murderer of his parents makes Harry both sick and angry, and he tries not to wonder how they might have been had the murderer not gone mad, not gone in search of something he could never have.

What sort of Mark-matches would they have been? He doesn’t think they would be romantic, and Harry isn’t even sure he knows _how_ to love. The only expressions of love he’s ever known are his Aunt and Uncle’s hateful matching, all rage and hate and fury that morphed from a clashing and from what might once have been ‘love’ and the claustrophobic love that his Aunt and Uncle smother his cousin with.

But either way, Harry doesn’t think that they are really Mark-matches anymore, and the Mark burns against Harry’s chest. Perhaps, in a once-future that is now gone, they could have met, could have known why they were Mark-matches, but now all that is left is a madman intent on something that he could never have and Harry, whatever he is in his not-quite-there-ness.

Perhaps, in that once-future, they wouldn’t have been broken, been shattered apart like they have, but now Harry just knows that there is no way out. That once-future is shattered like fragile crystal, and Harry turns his back on it, knowing that there is nothing he can do about it.

It still burns him, inside and out, though.


	5. Summer after Second Year

The ride back from Hogwarts is dull and quiet, and Ron and Hermione seem to understand that he-they can’t take any more noise or stress for a while. Hermione is worrying, and Ron watches them with both gratitude and concern, for they have both only known brave-Alice, not scared-Harry.

When he is picked up by his Uncle, Hermione hugs him tightly, and then whispers in his ear, “Owl me if you need anything, Harry.”

It is appreciated, but boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf stirs for the first time since the venom, and Harry just smiles, thanking her before he is pulled away by his Uncle.

The ride back to Privet Drive is filled with his Uncle’s harsh derisions, and Harry shuts his eyes and slips bright-Aladdin forward, his unbending cheer providing a needed shield from his Uncle’s poisonous words.

The atmosphere is tense in the house, that night, even as his Aunt chatters on about the newest members of the neighborhood, a family moving in at Number 6. Apparently, the father of the family was an archeologist, or so the gossip went, and his son was _defective_ , at least in their words.

Harry tilts his head, and wonders if his Aunt considers him _defective_. But then again, she is so very jealous and furious and sad and considering him _defective_ would be a point of explanation, of rationalization. He isn’t sure if she does that in that fashion, though.

That night, there is _pain._

His Uncle is angry, and Harry curls in on himself, shaking even as his bones burn and his Mark flares with white-hot heat and his Uncle takes his belt to Harry’s back.

Boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf is shaking and trembling, even as the persona is being worn, because it is all _too much_ and he is still recovering from the venom and tears.

He-they don’t get much sleep that night.

///

“Hello?”

The voice is soft. Harry starts from where he was sitting, hiding in the tall grasses from Dudley’s gang of thugs. It is a slim white-haired boy with soft brown eyes.

“Can you tell me how I can get to Privet Drive from here?” he asks, and Harry tilts his head, not sure how to respond. He doesn’t want to go back, just yet, but he isn’t sure if he can just tell directions.

In the end, bright-Aladdin pushes forward, smiling brightly.

“Sure! Come on, it’s this way,” he says easily. “I live there, and I’d best be getting back soon anyway. So, why d’you want to get to Privet Drive? Not a whole lot there,” the persona chatters.

“My father recently rented a house there,” the boy says quietly. “I’m very sorry, I forgot to introduce myself! I’m Ryou Bakura,”

“Harry,” bright-Aladdin introduces without missing a beat, but the words _bright-Aladdin_ linger in his-their mouth like a sour aftertaste.

“Thank you,” Bakura thanks, smiling. “It would have taken me so long to get here on my own.”

They are standing on the sidewalk, just far enough away from Number 4 that bright-Aladdin feels comfortable enough to still be talking to Bakura.

“No problem,” bright-Aladdin laughs, and Bakura nods, turning away and towards Number 6. Bright-Aladdin watches him go, and they are all watching through the same eyes, and finally scared-Harry murmurs, retreating back to his corner, _he’s got a pull._

Brave-Alice grumbles. _Like those cards?_

Boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf watches them, ever-silent. Bright-Aladdin keeps smiling, and together they walk into the personal hell that they’ve always known.

///

When they see each other again, Harry is nursing the bruises of the latest painful night. Bakura is very polite, but also _nervous_ , and his smiles are tight.

They talk, and eventually Harry lets it slip that he has some cards from the Duel Monsters game but doesn’t know how to play. Bakura half perks-up half crumbles in on himself, as though knowing that something is coming that he can’t stop.

“I can show you how to play,” he offers, and Harry shrugs.

“I don’t have that many cards,” Harry murmurs.

“I can still show you, right?”

And that is the end of that.

///

Bakura is…different when he plays, Harry notices. His eyes light up, and Harry knows he loves the games. But sometimes it isn’t Bakura showing him how to play, it’s someone else in his body. He thinks it’s kind of like how he can be Harry, except not scared-Harry but brave-Alice or bright-Aladdin.

Not-Bakura is odd and harsh, and he eyes Harry with hungry looks. But every time he invites Harry to play, or Bakura invites Harry to play, he demurs, saying that he doesn’t have a full deck and only about four or five monsters.

It is Harry’s birthday, the 31st of July, when Bakura apparently almost gets tired of his refusals, because the soft-spoken boy takes him to a game shop and buys Harry a starter pack and several booster packs.

Harry stares at the cards, and Bakura nudges him.

“Are you going to open them?” he asks quietly, and Harry looks at him.

“Thank you,” he thanks, and Bakura blinks. “This is the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.” And in that moment, it’s not bright-Aladdin speaking, or the intense tones of brave-Alice or the quiet of boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf. It is scared-Harry speaking, showing himself to this new maybe-friend.

Bakura reddens. “Really? It’s not very much, really.”

“It is,” Harry murmurs easily, and bright-Aladdin laughs. They open the packs, and soon Bakura and not-Bakura are coaching them on how to build a deck. They might have played that day, but it is getting late and Harry has to get back before his Uncle gets mad and decides to take out his anger on Harry.

They agree to meet the day after the end of his Aunt Marge’s stay so that Harry can play and begin to practice, but things spiral out of control and Harry storms away from Privet Drive, brave-Alice leading them away into the darkness.

It isn’t until the next summer that they return to the neighborhood, and by then Number 6 is empty.


	6. Third Year

Harry blinks at the portly man in front of him. Brave-Alice is speaking, but the man doesn’t seem to really be listening. His lime-green bowler hat gleams fluorescently in the low light, even as he restricts them with a few words. Brave-Alice restrains a few choice words, but soon the man is gone and Harry stows his things away.

He takes a moment to look over the gifts that Ron and Hermione had sent him for his birthday, alongside the food that Mrs. Weasley had sent and Hagrid’s dangerous book. Bakura’s gift of a proper deck rests comfortingly in one of his oversized pockets.

Each persona takes interest in different gifts—brave-Alice is attracted to Hagrid’s violent book, still bound with a belt. Bright-Aladdin enjoys Ron and Hermione’s gifts, and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf looks at the food Mrs. Weasley had sent and his stomach growls lowly.

Soon, though, he-they are tired out, and he-they lie back in the bed, feeling the odd softness that he-they are so unused to. It makes it difficult to fall asleep, though a doze falls over them almost immediately.

The next days are a mixture of freedom and being caged. Brave-Alice chafes at not being _allowed_ to leave Diagon Alley, and wonders when anyone will explain _anything_. Harry just enjoys the magic of the Alley, and even wanders off down Knockturn Alley once or twice. After the third attempted kidnapping, Harry starts to realize that brave-Alice and bright-Aladdin won’t be able to help him in that dark place, as they are too bright, and both boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf and scared-Harry are non-combatants.

As Harry starts fashioning the mannerisms of what he thinks may be the last of his masks—though he may be wrong—his-their Mark flares with white-hot rage. When Harry slips into the new role, he is surprised how easily the chilly rage and hate come to him, how the sly mannerisms come to him-them like breathing. Brave-Alice grumbles, but scared-Harry ignores the persona.

And for a time, it is quiet.

///

When Arthur Weasley tells Harry of the fact that Sirius Black is out to kill him, Harry just wonders _why_. Because Voldemort has a reason, at least. This new man? What is his reason?

But everyone’s fear and worry is too much and nags at his head, and he acquiesces to the patriarch’s desires, even as brave-Alice growls in the back of his head and he can feel sly-cold-hating-snake smirk coldly beside the decidedly Gryffindor persona, and brave-Alice almost hisses at the other.

And so they board the train, prepared for a quiet trip to Hogwarts. Harry thinks they should have expected what happens.

Dementors spread their chill like mint invades a garden, persistent and unrelenting. A scream rings in Harry’s ears, high and piercing. They are all being pushed around, none quite sure who should be playing ‘Harry’, and then everything goes black and scared-Harry stares at the others from his corner.

He is scared. But what is new about that?

///

Hermione is worried, Harry knows. But she also stinks of exhaustion and places-that-aren’t or places-they-haven’t-been. It makes him tilt his head, even as brave-Alice speaks so confidently to her.

She does some things that are unwise, and soon brave-Alice is fuming, but bright-Aladdin steps forward in the other’s absence, and they all seem almost _confused_ at how calm and easy going he is all-of-a-sudden, because brave-Alice isn’t easy-going but sharp and intent.

But no one says anything, and soon Hermione is so caught up in the mountains of homework she has that she can’t do more than give passing glances at Harry.

Her cat, Crookshanks, is quiet and calm and clever, and Harry is oddly reminded of _A Cat of Ill Omen_ , just like Hedwig almost reminds him of _An Owl of Luck_. He feels a tug of a smile at his lips as he watches the tabby push into Hermione’s face, refusing to let the exhausted girl study any further.

It is oddly sweet, Harry thinks.

///

When Harry finds out that the murderer, Sirius Black, is the reason they were placed with the Dursleys, brave-Alice hisses and sly-cold-hating-snake bristles. When Harry finds out that Sirius Black is his _godfather_ , brave-Alice is silent, but sly-cold-hating-snake explodes viciously, raging and killing-intent.

In the push that follows, scared-Harry ends up speaking to a worried Ron and Hermione, until sly-cold-hating-snake steps forward and turns their sadness into fury.

“I’ll _kill him_ ,” sly-cold-hating-snake hisses, and Ron and Hermione take a step back. “When he finds me, I’ll _kill him!_ ”

And that, for a time, is the end of that.

///

The end of the year flies by so quickly that scared-Harry has difficulty understanding it.

There is Sirius Black, the once-murderer-but-not, and Professor Lupin, who taught him to defend himself against Dementors but is a _werewolf_ , and there is Ron’s rat, Scabbers, who turns out to be the rea-murderer, Peter Pettigrew.

Then there is Snape and Ron and Hermione and Dementors and fear and terror and _hate_ , and by the next day Harry is struggling to keep back sly-cold-hating-snake but is losing the will to do so. If he loses that last piece of his family, he doesn’t know what will happen.

Vaguely, he notes that bright-Aladdin looks worn around the edges, but dismisses it even as scared-Harry retreats into the dark recesses of his-their mind.

And then Hermione drags them back through time, and suddenly things-that-aren’t and places-they-haven’t-been make _sense_ and the time-magic woven around them makes him _itch_.

Dodging a werewolf, saving a hippogriff, and fighting off what must be _hundreds_ of Dementors is _hard_ , and brave-Alice is winded once it is done, even as sly-cold-hating-snake growls as he thinks of the rat, Wormtail.

It is all so very thoroughly exhausting.

///

The train ride back to London, back to the Dursleys, is far more _wrenching_ than it has been any other year. Because now he has a _godfather_ , and the knowledge that his-their once-escape is now nonviable because the Minister is so very _dense_ and _buries-his-head-in-the-sand_ grates and hurts.

When they finally arrive, Harry is slow to unload from the train, despite the _pain_ he knows it will bring if he is even the slightest bit late. Ron and Hermione are worried, so worried, and even as Ron is tugged off to the side by his Mark-match, Hermione _hugs_ Harry.

“If you ever need anything,” she says carefully. “I’ll be there Harry.”

“Thank you,” he-they say, and Hermione looks into his eyes cautiously.

“I mean it,” she says, and then she is gone, following her parents into Muggle London.

Harry wants to linger, but he knows that much longer and not even an excuse from bright-Aladdin will prevent any cries and pain tonight.

He has to go, and it _hurts_.

And then he remembers that he has a convict-godfather, as much as that hurts. And maybe, just maybe, sly-cold-hateful-snake can hold that over his Uncle’s head.

For once, he thinks that he may have a pain-free summer.

It is an odd thought.


	7. Summer after Third Year

For once, his summer is quiet. His Uncle leaves him alone, and his Aunt’s lips are pursed and thin, though no words leave her lips. Harry luxuriates in the sensation of being with his relatives, but not being in pain. It is a fascinating sensation.

And then come the dreams, and Harry finds he can’t sleep. The dreams are sickly sweet with terror and a seductive sort of _pull_ , and it makes him shudder. His Mark is always hot on his skin these days, burning him like a brand.

The tension is growing more and more, and Harry fears the threat of his convict-godfather won’t be enough to stave off his Uncle’s fury much longer. And then comes Ron’s invitation, like a blessed wind, rescuing them from the growing prison.

He wonders if he’s just imagining the heat that glows from the cards in his pocket every time his Uncle steps close; the heat is soft and gentle, where the heat from his Mark is burning and painful, and he finds himself quietly laying them out some nights, brave-Alice and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf and weary-bright-Aladdin all so very silent in the back of his mind. Sly-cold-hateful-snake is never quiet, though, and the chilly hisses in the back of his mind make him want to just bury himself away from the mask’s hate and rage.

But sly-cold-hateful-snake is strong, and always present, and always muttering in his ears. And the rage is powerful, and wearing the mask makes him feel strong, and he _can’t stop himself_ sometimes.

It is luring and addictive.

It scares him.

///

The Quidditch World Cup is amazing and incredible. Brave-Alice is forward, the intense persona sharp and strong as they watch the graceful movements of the players in the air.

Weary-bright-Aladdin is soft now, the mask very light in scared-Harry’s hands. The persona is still so very _bright_ , but the light seems to be almost _faded_.

Scared-Harry pushes the thought away, resolving not to think about it.

Sly-cold-hateful-snake snickers lowly as the Death Eaters attack, and scared-Harry is so very glad that brave-Alice is speaking, because he can’t help the encompassing shudder that wracks his tiny frame.

///

The dreams are getting worse, Harry knows. They are still so very sickly sweet with terror and fear and that seductive sort of _pull_ , but there is more to them, more pain and green and death, and he’s hearing those _words_ over and over again, like a mockery of what he knows.

 _Avada Kedavra_ echoes in his ears again and again, and sly-cold-hateful-snake laughs coolly, and Harry shivers, covered in sweat. The raging persona is terrifying. But it-he is also so strong that Harry just wants to cling and hold on for dear life.

When sly-cold-hateful-snake pushes him away and forward, scared-Harry stiffens. _Oh, don’t mind me,_ sly-cold-hateful-snake murmurs, and scared-Harry can almost _hear_ the smirk in it-his voice. _You can handle it, can’t you?_

Harry shivers as he sits on his bed, trembling violently. It _hurts_. It hurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurts _hurts—_

He retreats, fleeing past the laughingly taunting form of sly-cold-hateful-snake, fleeing into the all-encompassing darkness in his-their mind.

He isn’t sure how long he hides there, but eventually the almost-faded form of weary-bright-Aladdin finds him, smile still eternally etched into his face.

 _It’ll all be alright_ , weary-bright-Aladdin says, but the words are hollow, almost-fake. _Everything will be alright._

Scared-Harry stares at him, and then weary-bright-Aladdin is reaching out and pulling him back and away, back to the center where there is light.

He doesn’t want to go back, not really.

But he doesn’t think he has much of a choice, and weary-bright-Aladdin looks so hollow-empty-fake that he can’t bring himself to resist. He wonders if the persona will just _fade away_ , like smoke in the wind, or dust crumbling away like reminders of a once-great kingdom of the long-distant past. A mask is gently placed in scared-Harry’s thought-formed hands.

 _Everything will be alright_ , the persona assures him once more, and scared-Harry tilts his head, and the ever-present tension in his chest tightens just that little bit more.

 _Don’t fade_ , scared-Harry whispers, and weary-bright-Aladdin laughs a hollow-empty-fake laugh.

 _Sometimes,_ he-it says, _there is no choice._

The words taste like ash and cinders in scared-Harry’s mouth.

///

Soon, soon it is time to board the Hogwarts Express once more. The brilliant scarlet steam-engine train is loud and powerful, and the crowds are harsh and closing in and filled with crying parents and awkward children, and it has never felt quite so much like home to Harry.

This is where he-they belong, he thinks, hand coming up unconsciously to grip where his Mark rests, flaring in heated displeasure.

The magic and wonder that surround him-them makes his-their heart pound, and he can’t help the small, joyous smile that makes its way to his lips. Even sly-cold-hateful-snake is quiet for a moment, soaking in the pure _wonder_ of the moment in contrast to the bleak, torturous monotony of Privet Drive.

And then brave-Alice is pushing forward, the Weasleys loud and bright as they crowd forward into the platform, and Ron and Hermione are on either side of him-them.

It is pure and wonderful and incredible and magnificent and so very much _home_ that scared-Harry chokes back hot, painful tears in his little corner of his-their mind, and brave-Alice, in his-its sharp intense way, is smiling and joyous.

Weary-bright-Aladdin is even smiling a smile that is less hollow-empty-fake and more true-real-full than anything he has worn for a good while.

And so, they walk forward, boarding the train that would take them deep into the heart of the wondrous magic of Hogwarts that had burrowed its way into their shared-heart.

It is a moment that even sly-cold-hateful-snake doesn’t wish to sour with his horrible, strong, alluring words.

 _Amazing,_ Harry thinks, stepping onto the train so very steeped in magic. _Absolutely amazing._

And it is.


	8. Fourth Year (Pt. 1)

Adults enjoy complicating things, Harry thinks. Ron is standing with his Mark-match, and Hermione is standing close by, her brown eyes sharp as they watch the surroundings for any sign of the coming visitors.

They have such funny names, Harry thinks; _Durmstrang. Beauxbatons_. Such odd names. Brave-Alice snorts lowly in agreement, and then the Pegasus-drawn carriage of Beauxbatons arrives, followed closely by Durmstrang’s intense ship arrival.

The Hogwarts students are ushered inside, to sit in anticipation of their meal while the newcomers prepare some sort of performance.

When the Beauxbatons students come through, their silk uniforms light on their frames and their magic as light and flowy as a breeze, Harry is surprised and somewhat delighted to see the butterflies fluttering around them, physical manifestations of their magic. And then come the Durmstrang students, and sly-cold-hateful-snake hisses in interest at the fiery snakes they breathe out in the end.

It is cool, Harry admits, and soon Dumbledore is explaining the event that will be taking place that year. The revelation that there will be no Quidditch as a result of the _Tournament_ makes brave-Alice grumble and scowl, and scared-Harry stares with a mixture of fear-fascination at the glowing form of the Tri-Wizard Cup and the flickering flames of the Goblet of Fire.

His Mark flares with heat as he watches, and he curls in on himself just a bit.

He really just wants a quiet year.

Can’t he have _that_ at least?

///

As it turns out, he can’t. The Goblet has just spat out his name and he sits there, unable to do anything. He doesn’t want this. He _doesn’t want this_.

And then brave-Alice is standing and sweeping past them, his-its intense fury palpable, and scared-Harry is pushed into his little corner. Sly-cold-hateful-snake is snarling, and for once both he-it and brave-Alice are in agreement about something.

He _doesn’t want this._

_They don’t want this._

But there is nothing they can do about it, and scared-Harry shudders as he feels the binding magic of the contract he-they have been entered into unwillingly settles firmly around his-their neck, like a noose, just waiting for him to fall and hang.

The adults are all talking, and brave-Alice sits there, furious and unable to do anything; the other Champions are watching him with suspicion, and he just knows that everything has taken a turn for the worse.

_It will be alright_.

The words are hollow-empty-fake and _false_ , but scared-Harry ignores that as he stares up into weary-bright-Aladdin’s face. The persona places his-its mask in scared-Harry’s hands, and scared-Harry runs a finger down the crack that mars its once-perfect surface.

_Everything will be alright. We will be fine._

The words are false and _wrong._ But that’s alright.

_We don’t need to worry._

Because, for now, they are the anchor that scared-Harry so desperately needs, to keep him from flying apart into so many broken-shattered pieces, and letting the gnawing darkness consume him-them in endless oblivion.

For now, they are enough.

For now.

///

The party he returns to in Gryffindor Tower is raucous, and the rest of Gryffindor is so very _dense_ and _oblivious_ that brave-Alice is fuming by the time he reaches his-their dorm. And then comes one of the worst parts of the night.

“So…when were you going to tell me?”

The words are velvet covered knives, and brave-Alice stiffens, and sly-cold-hateful-snake coils, ready to push the golden-boy brave-Alice out of the way to deal out the fury that those words cause. Because they _hurt_ , like acid on an open wound in his-their chest. And sly-cold-hateful-snake doesn’t like pain, doesn’t like _hurting,_ because that is what boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf is there to be, the one who _hurts_.

Boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf is the defender against pain.

Sly-cold-hateful-snake is the avenger against those who _cause_ that pain.

“I didn’t…” brave-Alice grits out, and then Ron is snorting and turning away.

“Yeah right. Famous Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived; guess you just couldn’t resist the chance at more fame and wealth, huh?” Ron snorts. “I’m not even mad at you for it. But the least you could have done was include your best mate in your plan, right? Guess I’m not as much a friend you as I thought.”

And then sly-cold-hateful-snake is snarling and howling and lashing out, and his-its words are vicious and cold.

“Well, I’m _sorry,”_ sly-cold-hateful-snake snaps, and scared-Harry is trembling as the avenger is so very _close to snapping_ , “that I didn’t tell you about something that I had no idea was going to happen! I’m so very _sorry_ that I didn’t tell you about a plot to kill me that I had no idea was even being formulated! Oh, you wanted to be in the tournament too? Well, I suppose I should call up _Voldemort_ and tell him to get your name in there too, so that you can die too!  I’m so _sorry_ that I have an insane mass murderer intent on killing me!”

Ron is puce, and he scowls.

“Just admit that you entered yourself,” he says mulishly. “And I’ll forgive you, Harry.”

And brave-Alice drags sly-cold-hateful-snake back under, refusing to allow the other to kill the redheaded boy. Scared-Harry is pushed forward, and he regards a steadily reddening Ron with sudden exhaustion.

“Forget about it.” Scared-Harry sighs, and the pain _burns_ at him even as he turns away from his once-friend.

“Just apologize!” Ron insists, and scared-Harry turns his eyes on the boy.

“Why would I apologize to someone I’ve barely even known?”

The words cut into the abrupt silence, and Ron turns a red to rival his hair.

“Fine, you _git_ ,” Ron snarls. “Be that way. You can go die in a ditch!” and he turns away, storming off into his own bed. Scared-Harry breathes out a pained breath, flopping down onto his bed and tapping his wand against the bedpost, activating the built-in silencing charm.

He can still see his once-friend’s face in his mind’s eye, young and hopeful and filled with expectations that Harry has always known he can never hope to meet.

In his-their mind, as brave-Alice and sly-cold-hateful-snake wrestle, fighting viciously, weary-bright-Aladdin sighs lowly, his already faded form blurring just that little bit more.

_It will be alright_ , he breathes, and they all know it is hollow-empty-fake.

It all _hurts_ , like acid and salt on a raw wound, and scared-Harry retreats, unable to bear anymore.

He is _bad_ , he knows. But he had hoped he wasn’t considered so very _bad_ at _Hogwarts_. But why else would he be subjected to this agony?

The only answer is that he deserves it, that he _deserves to hurt_ , for some unspeakable crime that he has somehow committed.

It is the only answer.

These are the words that scared-Harry repeats to himself, like a painful mantra, over and over, as he-they fall into black oblivion.

The cards at his waist flare with heat, but he is already so far into slumber that he doesn’t feel it.

///

The next day heralds a slow awakening, and Harry wakes to see his trunk ravaged. His belongings are scattered haphazardly across the room, and several of his books are destroyed and his robes torn. But brave-Alice dons them regardless, leaving his-their dorm with silent dignity, and fury trails in his-their wake, curling and licking at his-their feet.

But weary-bright-Aladdin pushes forward as they leave the Common Room, as whispers of _cheater_ and _attention-seeker_ follow them behind concealing hands.

Brave-Alice’s downturned lips twitch up, and the vicious gait turns into weary-bright-Aladdin’s bouncy, light-hearted steps. And maybe he-they had hoped that someone would see that something was wrong, that weary-bright-Aladdin’s smiles are hollow and empty and so, _so fake_ , that they are lies worn on his face, forgeries speaking of _being alright_ and playing at being _fine_.

But no one has ever noticed, and this doesn’t change. Everyone merely takes weary-bright-Aladdin at face value, ignoring the agony-fury-despair hidden beneath the empty smiles.

And they ignore it, because they are so used to being left to writhe and drown in their own pain and despair that they know almost nothing else.

///

Hermione is viciously steadfast in her support of him, and she stands by him even as Ron hurls abuse at them. And she keeps looking at him-them with quiet eyes, with a sort-of-suspicion in them, and one day they are sitting in the library and she speaks, with a horrible sort of weight behind her words.

“Are you really Harry?”

Weary-bright-Aladdin stops, and his smile is almost blinding in its brilliance.

“What do you mean?” he asks, playing perfectly at being confused. He is, after all, the best actor out of all of them.

“You keep changing,” Hermione breathes quietly. “Sometimes you’re so intense that it’s almost scary, and now…now you’re so _happy_ that it hurts when you should be so miserable, Harry. Your eyes change too, you know,” she continues, looking up at him-them. Scared-Harry shakes. “You, your eyes are hollow. Empty, almost. And the other’s…his are so fierce and strong and brave, I’ve never seen anything like it. If you hadn’t started switching…I might never have caught on.” She lifts her chin, taking a deep breath, and plunges forward. “So, are you really Harry?”

“I am,” weary-bright-Aladdin smiles easily. “But I’m not, too.”

And Hermione chokes out a near-sob, leaning over sharply.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she breathes, hugging him tightly. “I’m so _sorry_.”

And weary-bright-Aladdin sighs softly, breathing in the scent of her hair.

“It’s alright,” he says, and she sobs.

Because it isn’t.

Not really.


	9. Fourth Year (Pt. 2)

It is different now that Hermione knows, Harry thinks. She watches him with sad eyes, but she is always there, and he finds himself relaxing more and more. She is a welcome harbor of relative calm in a world that has become so much more hostile.

The words that follow him around are sharp and callous, cruel in their poignant viciousness, and Hermione always scowls when she hears them echoing behind them. Ron is still turning away from Harry, and Harry thinks he can see glimpses of the foul, sour jealousy that haunts his Aunt’s eyes in his once-friend’s bitter face. It makes him sad, because the thought of someone else wallowing in that sour feeling makes him _hurt_ and ache.

The Slytherins are especially cruel and nasty. Hermione always stiffens whenever Malfoy’s taunting calls follow them, and she looks as though she is moments away from turning and punching the leering boy in the nose. It makes Harry—scared-Harry—laugh lightly from his hiding place, his little corner.

But it isn’t all peaceful, not all words. Spells fly with whispered words and cruel smirks, and Hermione is hard put upon to shield in time or dodge the flashes of light. And no one even goes to any teachers about it; they turn away, eyes cold as they are determinedly ignorant. But Hermione is nearly a saint, and she sticks by them with a grim determination that makes scared-Harry wonder. Brave-Alice scoffs lowly, even as weary-bright-Aladdin sighs.

_We’re here to_ be _you,_ brave-Alice snaps. _Why would I associated with someone who will only hurt you?_

It is little consolation, but scared-Harry is curious. Except everything is speeding past him with incredible speed, and it isn’t until the night after the Weighing of the Wands ceremony that he finally pushes forward. It is late, and Hermione is reading; there is almost no one in the Common Room, and the fire is crackling warmly in the hearth.

He flops over, movements careful and precise as he can make them in his own way. His head lies in her lap, and she blinks down at him with wide-eyed shock.

“Harry—” she starts, but he smiles at her, and she stops. He can see it in her eyes as she realizes. “Which one are you?” she asks, and he smiles just a bit wider.

“Hi,” he says easily. “I’m Harry.” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper.

“Harry?”

“Mhmm,” he confirms, and his drift off, his attention flickering away as he struggles to let himself stay forward, to accept the sensory information he’s become accustomed to being without for so long. “Harry-Harry.”

Hermione smiles, and it is so very fragile that he reaches up and places a hand on her cheek as tears well up in her sadsad _sad_ brown eyes.

“Hello, Harry.” She says quietly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

///

The dragon is scary. Even brave-Alice’s heart is pounding, and scared-Harry suppresses a weak sound as the weak-scared-tremble-y feeling reaches him with its usual slightly dimmed sensation.

But they get the Golden Egg, and brave-Alice is happy, and then Ron is there, speaking and mouthing lip-service.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and sly-cold-hateful-snake snarls. “I…I reckon someone’s trying to do you in, mate.”

Brave-Alice regards the boy with his-its sharp, intense gaze, and the boy fidgets. Scared-Harry is trembling, and brave-Alice takes a breath.

“It’s alright,” he-it says, and they can all taste the sour taste of withheld venom on their tongue. Ron’s face beams even as Hermione eyes the red-head with chilly eyes. It’s clear that she hasn’t yet forgiven the boy for his behavior, and Harry finds, much to his surprise, that he doesn’t much mind.

And then brave-Alice retreats, the persona capitulating to the pull of exhaustion that the adrenaline crash was causing. Weary-bright-Aladdin pushes forward, simultaneously shoving sly-cold-hateful-snake back, and scared-Harry meets the snapping, angry eyes of the persona.

_He should hurt_ , sly-cold-hateful-snake hisses, and scared-Harry tilts his head.

_Why?_ He asks. Sly-cold-hateful-snake blinks at him, blank and uncomprehending. _Why should he hurt?_ Scared-Harry repeats. Sly-cold-hateful-snake is silent for a moment.

_Because,_ he-it says. _He hurt you._

And then scared-Harry remembers. Brave-Alice is the hero; weary-bright-Aladdin is the fool; boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf is the defender. And just like the others, sly-cold-hateful-snake serves a purpose at being a puppet that scared-Harry plays at being.

Sly-cold-hateful-snake is the avenger. He-it is the one who lashes out, who deals righteous and not-righteous wrath upon those around him-them, with eyes as cold as ice. And Ron’s callous, jealous words struck a painful, venom filled blow to Harry’s heart, causing just one more little chip, one more crack.

And they are stopping the avenger from lashing out, from serving his-its duty.

Scared-Harry leans over, placing his head in sly-cold-hateful-snake’s thought-lap. He-it looks startled, eyes widening. Then the persona’s thought formed hands thread through scared-Harry’s hair, and scared-Harry doesn’t really know how to feel. He’s being _touched_ , but it’s by someone who, really, is _him._ So it’s got to be alright, right?

He lets out a soft sound and sly-cold-hateful-snake gently combs his-its hands through his hair. It’s odd, and weird, and he doesn’t really know how to take it. But it feels… _good_ , somehow.

They both ignore the fact that they are the same person.

///

And then comes the Yule Ball. Hermione smiles gently at him as brave-Alice asks her in his-its own way.

“I’m already going with someone,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

But the apologies are unneeded; they don’t need them. And so, they wonder who they should ask to the Ball. Briefly, brave-Alice suggests that they should just go alone, but sly-cold-hateful-snake shoots it down.

_They will expect him to have a date,_ he-it points out smoothly. _Aren’t you supposed to be playing along to them,_ Alice _?_

Brave-Alice scowls.

_Fine then, who do you suggest?_ He-it snaps.

Sly-cold-hateful-snake is tellingly silent.

“Hello,” a dreamy voice greets. Brave-Alice snaps around, staring at the pseudo-intruder. She smiles at them, blue eyes slightly unfocused. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says easily. “I’m Luna. You have a lot of wrackspurts around you, did you know?”

Brave-Alice stares at her for a moment.

“I’m Harry,” he offers lamely after a moment, and _brave-Alice_ lingers on his-their tongue like bitter juice.

“I know,” she replies calmly. “But you’re not, not really, are you.” It isn’t a question. Brave-Alice stiffens. “It’s alright,” she says reassuringly. “I won’t tell, Mister not-Harry.” She reaches up and pats his cheek gently. “You really are very nice.”

And then she smiles up at him, and he blinks down at her. She points up, and he turns around.

“My shoes,” she says calmly. “I do wonder how they got up there.”

“Does that happen often?” brave-Alice says finally.

“Sometimes. My dorm-mates have a lot of nargles and wrackspurts all around them, you know. Makes their thoughts all fuzzy.”

And Harry flicks his wand, murmuring, “Accio.”

The shoes float down, and Harry hands them to the girl. She smiles at him, and sits down to slip them on. Her feet are bare.

“Will you go to the Ball with me?” he asks on impulse, and sly-cold-hateful-snake sighs with exasperation. Luna smiles up at him.

“If you want me to, Mister not-Harry. Does Harry agree?”

brave-Alice stares down at her.

“I wouldn’t ask, otherwise,” he says finally. Luna’s blue eyes sparkle.

“Thank you,” she says, and they cannot doubt her sincerity.

///

The Ball is incredible. The music is light and airy, and Harry and Luna open the dance alongside the other Champions. Luna is dressed in a flowy, silvery silk dress that flutters around her almost like fairy dust.

When they escort her back to Ravenclaw tower, she smiles at them and curtseys. They bow back, and then Luna is turning away.

“Thank you,” Harry blurts, and it’s scared-Harry, not any of the others. He doesn’t really know why he’s doing this, but he thinks that she deserves it. She turns and looks at him.

“You’re welcome, Harry.”

///

Luna becomes a near permanent fixture around Harry, and Hermione sniffs and sighs, her logic combating with Luna’s gentle belief. It can grow, sometimes, into arguments, but more often they are debates that leave scared-Harry’s head spinning even as Ron turns away in disgust.

And then comes the Second Task, and brave-Alice leads them into the icy waters of the lake, and they rescue Ron and Fleur’s little sister. Luna meets him later, and she stares at him, hard.

“Be careful,” she says finally. “The wrackspurts do so like you.”

“Thank you,” brave-Alice murmurs. “I will.”

_We will_ goes unsaid.

///

The Third Task is hard. The maze is winding and dark and scary, and scared-Harry is pulling away, away from it. It makes him shudder. There is something very wrong with the place. His Mark is flaring hotly, and he can’t help himself when he reaches down to where his deck is strapped securely to his waist.

The cards are warm to the touch, and the sort-of- _pull_ they have is almost-comforting. He slows his breathing, just a bit, and calms. He just wants to get through the Task.

///

Harry’s Mark is white-hot on his chest, burning and writhing as he is pinned to the gravestone. Voldemort laughs cruelly as he presses his finger to Harry’s forehead, where his scar sits, and Harry wonders vaguely if mad-Voldemort still has his Mark and if it is flaring so very hot and bright on _his_ skin.

It really is a unique kind of pain.

Mark-matches aren’t meant to hate and hurt each other like scared-Harry and mad-Voldemort do. But they are drawn to each other, it seems, and the fractured bond of their Marks _hurts so much_.

As he is forced down and into a duel with mad-Voldemort, he keeps his eyes away from the coldcold _cold and still_ body of Cedric, eyes blank and shocked as he just lies there, limp and motionless.

He isn’t sure what is happening, but suddenly he’s hiding behind a gravestone as mad-Voldemort crows and taunts him, demanding that he come and face him. And then he shuts his eyes, because brave-Alice is worn out, but will willingly walk to their death if it means protecting scared-Harry, and sly-cold-hateful-snake is snarling and demanding to be let loose.

His hand drifts to his deck, the deck that Bakura and not-Bakura helped him put together. The deck that he hasn’t been able to play with yet. A blasting curse strikes the headstone next to him, and he flinches.

_Please,_ he prays to whatever deity(s) might be listening. _Let me come out of this alive._

And then heat wracks his body, warm and engulfing and welcoming, and then a boy stands in front of him, holding a staff. He is wraith like, and his eyes are black as pitch. He smiles at Harry, and Harry stares back.

_Run,_ the boy seems to say. _Run, to the Cup. I will protect you._

The boy darts forward, and Harry doesn’t take the time to doubt the strange apparition. He dives for the Cup, and snatches Cedric’s cold body at the last moment.

A whorl of colors flashes in front of his eyes as he is dragged by an invisible hook that has latched on just behind his navel. And then he lands in the once-Quidditch pitch, and he wavers, because all of a sudden he is so very _tired_.

Black oblivion claims him, and he thinks he hears the boy’s quiet voice following him gently.

_Sleep, Summoner._

And Harry falls into that dark abyss of deep unconsciousness.


	10. Summer before Fifth Year

The summer is hard. The aftermath of the Maze and the graveyard is harsh, tormenting them even in their safest place—their mind. Scared-Harry can’t escape, and he retreated to the safe darkness of his little corner, even as brave-Alice is strong and sly-cold-hateful-snake curls around him, eyes as chill as ice.

Weary-bright-Aladdin chips away a little more each day, and they all watch as his form flickers and wavers, becoming more and more false-empty-fake.

But his Uncle is still cowed by the threat of Sirius, and while his Aunt sneers at him, her angry jealousy sharply poking at him, he can’t help but be relieved.

They are balancing on a wire strung razor sharp over an abyss of oblivion, and scared-Harry doesn’t know if he wants to fall or let the others balance him on that sharp wire.

It really is a precarious balance.

///

Harry stares at the slim card in his hand, staring at the face of the so-called monster. The boy’s dark eyes stares out at him from the art, and he feels a shudder ripple down his spine as the card _pulls_ at him, just a little bit.

The sun shines down harshly on him, and he mops the sweat from his brow. The grass all around him is tall and yellow. The dry crackling sound it makes as he steps in it makes him smile.

Brave-Alice sighs, and scared-Harry can almost feel sly-cold-hateful-snake’s possessive arms wrapped around him, even as the pure malice envelops him.

As he-they turn their steps back toward Number 4, Privet Drive, sly-cold-hateful-snake sneers.

 _Just kill them and get it over with,_ he-it snarls. Even though he can’t see it, scared-Harry feels brave-Alice glower at the other.

 _You’re an idiot,_ brave-Alice snaps. _Where would we hide the bodies?_

There is a scarily contemplative pause, and scared-Harry represses a shiver. He doesn’t want any blood or pain or death, he just wants quiet and _safety_ , a place where he-they aren’t in constant pain.

 _…As you wish,_ sly-cold-hateful-snake capitulates grudgingly, and brave-Alice murmurs agreement. Scared-Harry closes his eyes, and brave-Alice steps forward, steeling him-them to face the cold indifference and hate of the Dursleys.

He really just wants to run and run and _run_ —

—but he can’t. So he just settles into his little corner, and sly-cold-hateful-snake is there, and he doesn’t want to pay attention.

His-its arms are warm, and scared-Harry lets his eyes flutter shut.

///

Harry shivers, the abrupt chill in the air prickling along his skin like needles. It’s so _cold_ , and everything’s so _dark_ …

And then he knows what is happening, even as Dudley lashes out.

 _Dementors_.

They swoop in, and scared-Harry stares blankly from his little corner as brave-Alice fights, only to lay there on the ground, wand just a few inches away, and the Dementors are about to suck both his and Dudley’s souls out, condemning them to a fate worse than death—

—and then he is there, shoving brave-Alice out of the way because something is _shouting_ at him and he needs to do something, but he doesn’t know _what_.

There is darkness flickering at the edges of his vision, and there is _something_ boiling in his blood. The cards flare hotly against his skin, even as he grabs his-their wand and _shoves_ that _something_ into it, gasping out the incantation as brave-Alice shrieks into his thought-ear.

The shadows _shiver_ , and the great silver stag flares forward, chasing off the rotting shades and the chill they brought with them.

Scared-Harry pulls back, and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf trembles at the sensation of pure _exhaustion_ that follows him, sticking to _him_. It crashes into him, and he is in his little corner and weary-bright-Aladdin twitches one of those hollow-empty-fake smiles at him, whispering those words that are so very _false_ but so needed.

_It’s alright._

Darkness engulfs him.

///

When he wakes again, sly-cold-hateful-snake is arguing with brave-Alice, and they are in an old, creaky house that makes him shudder. The magic of the place washes over him like dust and shadows with a trill of petrichor, and he leans back, letting the sensations fall over him like a waterfall.

The house is old, and the magic is strong. The shadows that cling to everything laugh, and scared-Harry is torn between a euphoria he hasn’t almost-felt since he first saw Hogwarts and a deep-seated terror.

And he wonders, because no one seems to see the shadows, even as their skin prickles and a silent unease shivers in their movements. They aren’t aware, he thinks, and it somehow makes him sad. The shadows are cruel and laughing, but they are warm and gentle too, with those hints of mercilessness sharp in his head.

He doesn’t know why they don’t sense it, how they can miss the sensation of dust and shadows and petrichor, but they do.

They can be so very blind sometimes, he thinks.

It turns out to be true, so true that it makes his chest ache horribly.

///

Hermione’s eyes are sad, Harry thinks. They are brimming with a sadness that makes him _ache_ , and he wants to make it better, but he doesn’t know how. Brave-Alice huffs, and sly-cold-hateful-snake bites off a snarl.

 _She’s sad,_ scared-Harry says, and sly-cold-hateful-snake scowls.

 _She should be._ The words are harsh and acerbic.

_Why?_

Sly-cold-hateful-snake looks away, red eyes dark and furious, and brave-Alice sighs.

 _She did something very bad,_ brave-Alice explains briefly, quickly turning his-its attention back to the outside world. Scared-Harry shudders.

Bad? Hermione isn’t bad, oh no. _Harry_ is bad, but never Hermione, never her. She is good, so _good_ that he wishes he could be more like her sometimes. Sly-cold-hateful-snake scoffs, and scared-Harry can’t help the flinch that ripples through his frame. His chest is aching, and when boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf holds out his hand, he lets the muted persona _pull_ it all away, because he doesn’t want to _hurt_.

 _It’ll be alright_ , whispers weary-bright-Aladdin, and sly-cold-hateful-snake swings his glare upon him.

 _Why don’t you just shatter, already?_ Sly-cold-hateful-snake snarls, and scared-Harry shudders from the venom and fury contained in those words. Weary-bright-Aladdin shuts his tired, faded gray eyes.

_It’ll be alright, it’ll all be fine._

The words echo hollowly and sly-cold-hateful-snake turns away, disgust flickering over his pale features.

 _Just shatter already,_ he says quietly, and weary-bright-Aladdin forces a fake-cold-empty smile.

 _Things will come as they come,_ he says with a false cheer.

Scared-Harry closes his eyes, curling in on himself in the security of his little corner.

Everything is fraying around the edges and he doesn’t know how to fix it, because he’s fraying away too.

///

The trial is hard. The harsh strains of anger and disbelief are enough to make him shudder, but he can’t hold it against them. Their subtle undertones of fear and panic are so similar to the trembling of Aunt Petunia on _those nights_ that he just wants to reach out and take all the pain away.

He can’t, though, so he lets brave-Alice and weary-bright-Aladdin speak for him, their voices an odd mixture that resonates in his thought-formed ears.

Sly-cold-hateful-snake is snarling; and when one woman speaks, all hate and disgust concealed behind sickly sweetness, he focuses on her.

 _Toads should stick to eating flies,_ he hisses, and scared-Harry stares at him because the words are _not nice,_ though he really doesn’t know what else he should expect from the persona.

In the end, they get off, but there is so much _wrong_ with what happened that they are all seething, and finally sly-cold-hateful-snake grasps onto brave-Alice’s hands and _pulls_ , and the fury in his-its face falls away.

Scared-Harry takes a breath, because he didn’t know that he-it could do that, could _pull_ away all of that anger like boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf can _pull_ pain away.  Sly-cold-hateful-snake turns wrathful eyes on the rest of them and pulls away, slipping into his own little space while brave-Alice is speaking to the outside.

Scared-Harry curls up, holding himself. He doesn’t like this, not at all, but he has no choice. His eyes flicker to the darkness around them, and he quietly entertains the thought of just _run-run-running_ and never looking back, fleeing into the darkness until it consumes him and he can’t return, _won’t_ return.

But he can’t, _won’t_ , do that, not now.

Because they will only pull him back, and if he flees he doesn’t ever want to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I'm doing NaNoWriMo this year, guys. So while I will be working on this, my updates will be slower, as I will be focusing on my original novel for NaNoWriMo.   
> So, if I don't update this month, I will see you all in December. Hopefully.


	11. Fifth Year (Pt. 1)

Harry stares down at the silver locket in his hand, the chain wrapping around his fingers. The emeralds on it glitter in the low light, and he shivers as the shadows flicker and laugh in his ears.

There’s something _wrong_ with the locket, and scared-Harry can feel the chilly feeling of sly-cold-hateful-snake’s eyes peering through beside him. There’s something _wrong_ , something horribly _off_ , and yet…

…he slips the locket into his pocket, letting himself fall back into his little corner as Mrs. Weasley shrieks through the house, calling them all down so that they can leave for the train.

His deck warms lightly against his skin, and scared-Harry closes his eyes, refusing to look out at the cloying shadows that surround them.

It’s too much, and he can’t take it; he’s scared to look into that abyss, into those laughing shadows that hide everything in their clutches as they smell of dust with that hidden trill of petrichor.

So he closes his eyes and blinds himself to the outside world even as boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf’s bony thought-hands circle around his head, _pulling_.

It’s so much easier to just be unaware, to have no responsibilities.

///

 _Toads should be eating flies,_ sly-cold-hateful-snake snarls lowly as the pink woman speaks so sickeningly sweetly, her mouth wide.

Brave-Alice pauses, taking a moment from the boring speech of meaningless words to turn his-its intent attention onto sly-cold-hateful-snake.

 _…there are the Twins_ , he-it says slowly, as though not sure if he-it should be saying such things. Scared-Harry watches sly-cold-hateful-snake smirk.

 _Shall we?_ Brave-Alice nods.

 _Later._ Sly-cold-hateful-snake snorts.

_Naturally. Do I look stupid to you?_

_I wouldn’t know._

Scared-Harry covers his ears. He doesn’t want to know any more about the chaos the two are planning.

He certainly never saw it coming, that brave-Alice and sly-cold-hateful-snake would team up. After all, they were like Alice and her Jabberwocky, a human and a monster.

He glances back up at sly-cold-hateful-snake’s flashing red eyes, fury and hate just below the surface. Yes, he is a monster. But all of that monstrousness, that hate and fury and chilling lack of remorse—it is turned outwards, onto the world.

A world that, in the end, truly deserved that rage.

///

Scared-Harry barely notes their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class. All he knows is that brave-Alice and sly-cold-hateful-snake were fighting, the latter hissing and spitting so many horrible words that he covers his ears.

He glances out at the darkness surrounding them, so different from the shadows that flickered at the edges of their vision.

He’s just so tired.

The dreams are getting worse and worse, and he sometimes thinks the locket is whispering in his ears, speaking of horrible, horrible things.

He closes his eyes.

Maybe when he wakes up, things will be better.

///

“Hello.”

It’s Luna, her blonde hair like starlight around her. She smiles at him.

“You have a lot of nargles around you. Did you know that?” he nods.

“Yeah,” weary-bright-Aladdin smiles brightly, and Luna tilts her head. Her blue eyes narrow briefly. Then she reaches forward and snatches his hand, pulling them along.

“Where are we going?” weary-bright-Aladdin asks, ignoring brave-Alice and sly-cold-hateful-snake’s muttering. Luna turns a radiant smile back on him.

“A special place,” she says lightly. “Where you don’t have to be hollow.”

The doors that appear to guide them into the ‘special place’ are surprising. Luna laughs, the bell-like sound tinkling.

“It’s the Come and Go Room,” she says. “It’s full of empty and hollow things that were lost a long time ago. But they’re found too, eventually.” She turns that beatific smile onto them. “I like to come here and look through everything. It’s nice to know that not everything is lost. And besides…” she looks back out at the heaps of broken and lost things everywhere. “Not all who wander are lost; and I do so like wanderers. Will you wander with me?”

He doesn’t really understand, but he lets her pull her through the maze of lost items that has accumulated over the centuries.

Eventually, a tiara catches his eye, and he stops, staring at it. It almost glows, silver and pure in the dim light. The sapphires gleam, and Luna sighs.

“It’s so pretty,” she whispers, and weary-bright-Aladdin looks at her sad face. He reaches out and lifts the tiara from its resting place, and something _resonates_. Luna smiles a little, patting his arm when he holds it out for her, that empty-fake-hollow smile spreading his lips. “It’s for you,” she says quietly. “For now. When it’s all clean again, that is when it will come to me.”

He doesn’t understand again, but that seems to be the norm with this fairy-like girl who sees more than most.

He doesn’t mind, anyway.

As they leave after wandering for a while more, Luna turns to look at him. Her blue eyes are sharp and clear, and she stares him down.

“Be careful,” she whispers. “The toad won’t leave you alone just because you refuse to see her.” Her eyes narrow. “There are some things that being blind to only causes more pain.”

He blinks at her. The words are in riddles, at least to him. But he’s so spread thin that it doesn’t really matter. The words aren’t meant for _him_ , anyway.

“Okay,” he says, and she smiles, relaxing. She bounces forward and tugs him down by his tie. He leans down accommodatingly, no matter that he’s barely three-quarters of a inch taller than her. She kisses his forehead gently before pulling away, smiling mischievously at him.

“Don’t stay under mistletoe,” she warns. “Nargles like it.”

And then she’s gone, and weary-bright-Aladdin can’t help the smile that flickers over his-their face. For a brief moment, he isn’t fading away, isn’t hollow-empty-fake.

But it isn’t to last, and he lets himself fall to the back as brave-Alice pushes forward, taking control.

The tiara is heavy in their pocket, right alongside the locket.

There’s something _wrong_ with the two, but it’s not the time for that. For now, he simply leans back and lets himself keep repeating that litany that defines him.

_Everything will be all right._

Because someone has to say it; and maybe, just maybe, eventually, he’ll believe it. He _has_ to believe it, because if he doesn’t, then none of the others can either.

He’s the empty reassurance, and as horrible as that is, as empty as it is…

Somebody has to do it. He doesn’t mind, not at all.

_(Except he does, but he won’t say that. He’s fading, shattering—his words mean nothing. All he can do is say that litany of empty, meaningless words over and over again in the hopes that they’ll one day mean something.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Luna is really hard to get in character. And, hey, look! Weary-bright-Aladdin characterization! Who knew?  
>  In all honesty, this chapter just would not leave. me. _alone._ It wanted to be written, that's for sure. And lookie here, is that cannon divergence? Why yes, it is.  
>  Things are going off the rails from here, folks. Hope you enjoy the ride~ :)


	12. Fifth Year (Pt. 2)

Harry glances up as someone slides into a seat beside him. He and Hermione are in the library, spending the period they would have spent with Umbridge studying.

Harry notes the green and silver tie, and the sharp smirk set in a tanned face. The Slytherin grins at him.

“Potter,” he says, and Harry nods. Brave-Alice and sly-cold-hateful-snake are both settled back, letting him take the lead; weary-bright-Aladdin is a soft whisper, and boy-who-won’t-cry-wolf is just shifting restlessly, haunted by endless memories of their Uncle and Aunt and Cousin.

“Zabini,” Hermione hisses. “What are you doing here?”

Zabini grins. “Studying, Granger. Why, are you so devastated by my gorgeous looks that you can’t concentrate?”

Hermione goes scarlet, glaring at him. “Go to another table!” she snaps, but Zabini just laughs.

“But there’s a perfectly good one here,” he points out, leaning back in his chair. “Besides, I don’t hear Potter complaining. Do you?”

Hermione turns to him. “Harry?” she asks, looking at him pleadingly. Scared-Harry glances between the two, and he can _feel_ the tugging between the two, no matter the ties that are wrapped around them.

“You should just kiss,” he says blankly, giving voice to the tugging feelings between the two. They both go red.

“H-Harry!” Hermione splutters.

“What? With _her?_ ” Zabini exclaims sharply, staring at him. Scared-Harry turns another page, looking up at the two.

“You’re all… _pulling_ ,” he says, gesturing. He flicks a glance at Zabini cautiously, because brave-Alice has always dealt with the Slytherins, but the boy is staring at him, a stray brown curl falling into his eyes. “It’s distracting.”

He ducks back into his books, feeling oddly embarrassed. Brave-Alice sighs lowly, but sly-cold-hateful-snake is snickering.

 _They looked poleaxed,_ he-it laughs. _You should do that more._

Scared-Harry shakes his head, pushing those thoughts away. He’s already getting uncomfortable, though it’s been taking longer and longer for him to be ready to retreat. But brave-Alice can’t nudge into control until Zabini’s left…so he’s left there, burying his face into his books as the two snipe and hiss at each other.

But he still sticks by what he said before—the two really should kiss. Their _pulling_ was distracting, honestly; all tangled up and dragging at them like a huge knot of confusion.

He sighs and decides to heck with it, letting weary-bright-Aladdin nudge into control. The shadows are too clingy and touchy, laughing and cold—like ice and frost and blackness so deep that no light has ever touched it.

He doesn’t like it, not at all.

///

He wakes up to the sound of spells being cried, and of magic rippling in the air. Brave-Alice is in control, and sly-cold-hateful-snake is wrapped around him tensely.

He shifts, feeling an odd… _emptiness_ by the side of his-their body. He looks through their eyes, and flinches back. Bravce-Alice is…teaching?

 _They’re calling it the Defense Association,_ sly-cold-hateful-snake murmurs. Scared-Harry glances up at him, meeting those chilling red eyes.

He turns away, and glances back at where brave-Alice is in control. He hadn’t known about this, not at all. And that hurt, because he had wanted to know, wanted to be closer to his protector.

But sly-cold-hateful-snake’s hands tighten around his shoulder and he-it hisses, and scared-Harry can’t help but shiver at the possessive note in the sound.

 _Ignore them,_ he-it whispers. _Go back to sleep._

Scared-Harry wants to argue, but sly-cold-hateful-snake’s hands come up and grasp at his head, long fingers holding him gently, and there is a wave of overwhelming cold and hot and shadows that are laughinglaughing _laughing_ , and then he’s floating away into darkness.

He wants to fight back, to claw at consciousness and grasp at it and let the cold, laughing shadows that taste of old stone and dampness slip away from him, but he just _can’t_. His hands are numb, and his body won’t respond to his wishes.

He’s back into that not-sleep before he can say a word.

///

Christmas is…incredible.

They’re back in that old, laughing house, the shadows clinging like parasites to every corner and wall. But Sirius is there, and there is light and joy, and he gets _presents_.

After dinner, one night, Sirius pulls him off to the side, and hands him a package. The black haired man smiles at him.

“I know it’s not Christmas,” he says quietly. “But I thought you might like this.”

And there’s something off about this, _too_ ; like a humming in the back of his head, a whisper that choruses with the locket and tiara in his pockets. Sly-cold-hateful-snake hisses jubilantly.

Brave-Alice takes the package. “Thank you,” he says quietly, because brave-Alice has never been loud. Not unless he-it is angry, and that anger is a quiet, furious anger that rages and rages until everything surrounding is destroyed.

Sirius smiles. “Any time, pup.”

Later, in his room, scared-Harry stares at the three objects in his lap. A silver locket covered in emeralds; a silver tiara studded with brilliantly blue sapphires; a golden cup with a badger etched into its side.

“What are these?” he whispers, and sly-cold-hateful-snake shifts.

 _They are pieces,_ he-it says finally. _Pieces and shreds, and they’re calling, pulling together. That’s why the Grim gave you the Cup without suspicion._

Scared-Harry blinks. Why does he always have to be so cryptic? Before, he had just been a ball of hate and anger and temptation, forever whispering—

Oh.

“You’re like them,” he says softly, and sly-cold-hateful-snake is suspiciously quiet.

_I am._

The words are quiet, almost a breath in the silence of their mind. Scared-Harry retreats, and is greeted by red eyes and long, elegant fingers that wind into his hair.

 _But I am yours,_ he-it says softly, intent and almost-desperate. _Always, always yours._

Scared-Harry just looks at him, feeling almost inexplicably sad. His Mark aches gently on his chest, and he is reminded of the burning that has been almost entirely absent this year. Sly-cold-hateful-snake sighs and places his forehead on scared-Harry’s, slumping ever so slightly.

 _But you are not mine,_ he-it whispers, something almost like pain tugging at scared-Harry. _Never, never mine._

And he thinks back to those words that have haunted him for so long, hanging in the back of his head.

_Avada Kedavra._

The Killing Curse.

Suddenly, everything snaps into place. He shudders, and sly-cold-hateful-snake just holds him, sad and pained and unhappy.

_I’m sorry._

The words are whispered like a prayer.

_I’m so sorry._

_This is all my fault._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the truth about sly-cold-hateful-snake is revealed...  
> Who saw that one coming? :)  
> (Well, at least, part of the truth. More is yet to come.)


	13. Interlude 1

She hates this, she really does. She hates that she has to bow her head to people she knows are phony and fake. But before, before she knew better, she had worshipped them like gods in human form, and now…now she knew better. And that loss of innocence, the knowledge that had hit her like a sledgehammer, had fractured something in her.

But she still dips her head, forces a facsimile of respect onto her features even as she rages against the authority figures she once so adored. Because she has a purpose, a reason. 

She had been alone for so long, before Hogwarts. The other children at her primary school had taunted her and cruelly mocked her for her intelligence, and maybe it would have been alright, had her parents been there, warm and welcoming. But instead they were sharp and demanding, with high hopes and expectations, and she had never dealt well with parental disappointment. 

So she had turned to the next best thing for approval. Her teachers. 

They had been warm and welcoming, praising her for her intelligence even when the other children mocked and scorned her. It had been something she dearly needed, and she had clung to it like a drug. She had gradually begun to believe that authority figures had to be right, they had to be, because it needed to be that way. 

When she had received her Hogwarts letter, she had thought that _this_ , _her magic, this was why she was so strange and disliked_. She had hoped that she would find friends in this strange world.

She had been wrong.

Hogwarts had turned out to be like everywhere else, and the children had been even crueler because she wasn’t a _pureblood,_ or even a _halfblood_. She was trash in their eyes, a _muggleborn,_ a _mudblood._  

And her isolation had been nearly complete. She struggled, reaching out and trying to help others, but they scorned her with cold eyes and furious words, and she knew now that in her childish desperation she had driven them away with her ‘know-it-all’-ness. But it had still hurt, to know that she was alone, like always, with her parents’ expectations weighing down on her.

And then the troll had come, and a tiny boy with flashing green eyes had come to her rescue alongside the obliviously cruel ginger that had hurt her.

She had found a friend from a situation that would have killed her, and in the rush of adrenaline she took the blame for everything, and those green eyes glittered with something that was _not quite right._

But she ignored it, because she had friends. It was something new, something she had never had before.

And they had settled into a routine, and she had luxuriated in the sense of not being alone. But then Quirrell and the Stone had happened, and she had had to let the green eyed boy, her savior, go on alone because she had to. And she hadn’t wanted to, had wanted to grip onto him like a drowning man grasps a piece of wood to stay afloat, but she had let him go.

It had torn at her, but she let him walk through the fire alone while she went back.

And then they were going home and Harry was alright, and there was something _not quite right_ in his eyes, but she ignored it again, because he _had to be alright,_ because he was _strong_.

She had been wrong, then, but she didn’t realize that until later.

But now, now she knows, now she could be there for him, her savior. Because she knows what is hiding behind those emerald eyes, the fractures that exist. And knowing that he— _they?—_ trust her with that knowledge, with knowing that weakness…

It is humbling.

So she dips her head and smiles and nods and looks away from crystalline blue eyes, all the while holding the image of her savior in her head. Because she doesn’t care about teachers or authority anymore, she doesn’t care about those who had hurt him. She’ll be there, holding out her hands as she helps him put his fractured self back together again, even just a little bit, because he deserves so much better. 

And she’s scared, terrified really, because what happens if she messes this up? Will he just… _shatter_ into millions of little pieces? Or will he just be left alone, to drown in his own darkness and _not quite there-_ ness?

And she won’t, _can’t_ , let that happen; the idea makes her heart break, just a little bit. So she tries to be there for him, letting him piece himself together at his own pace.

She’ll be his protector, his sword and shield against those who were supposed to _protect him_ but have _hurt him so much_.

Because he is her savior, and she owes him at least that much.

She be his savior in turn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been so long since I last updated this--life caught up with me, and I'm still really busy. but! here's an interlude I've had written for a while, and hopefully I can get back to this story sometime soon.

**Author's Note:**

> This story began as a foray into the Soulmate AU and poking around into what it could be and what the consequences could be if Harry and Voldemort were soulmates but ended up killing each other. It was only supposed to be at most around ten chapters. And then it decided it wanted to be more.   
> ...I hope you all enjoy this fic as it goes.  
> This is also my first work here on AO3, so I hope everything goes well.  
> Stay awesome, y'all.


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